Some late December Eve

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Some late December Eve

I walk along a snowy trail

Some late December eve

I find a man hanging ‘round

Held there by a single bound

Why does he want to leave?

 

I watched the snow fall upon his face

It would not melt as far as I could see

I find him in his final sin

Now compelled to find his next of kin

Looks familiar though the name escapes me

 

Looking up I pondered life

I watched him dangle in the air

I wondered what kind of life he took

And where do I start to look

Under my breath a silent prayer

 

Help me tell his story

God forgive this man

Let him in your grand palace

Purge him of this malice

Please send me a plan

 

Starring at his face above

I sit upon a nearby snowy rock

And wonder why I’m here

The answer is not too clear

Though I knew I’d need to work ‘round the clock

 

This man I swear I’ve seen him before

Not sure of place and time

Was there more I could have done

To save him of his own smoking gun

Shot down before his prime

 

I know I shouldn’t sit here and cry

Cry over a man I don’t know

Yet I find myself standing here alone

Listening to the larks mournful tone

I let out a sigh of pure woe

 

I ponder what his purpose may have been upon this earth

Then I think of mine

I hope to see him again

This time not a noose on his neck but with a big grin

With the one divine

 

I walk back among the rocks, trees, and snow

Back to town to find out a lil’ more

About this man I swear I’ve met

I just can’t say I really know him yet

I want to figure why he’s so sore

 

Sometime later

I figure out his life

I found he had fair wages

Writing pages

Books, poetry of strife

 

I found some of his troubles

He likes the drinks and clubs

He was perpetually alone

Was it a choice of his own?

Was it a love of pubs?

 

Alcoholism was I his blood line

His dad was a mad drunk

His life was full of pain

No wonder he felt there’s little to gain

Always told "you flunk!"

 

I cannot completely blame him

He had better people to see and place to go

A distant place gone from here

Where forbid words are hate and fear

He ultimately escaped from his all time low

 

Now years and years have flew on by

Since I last saw his face

I keep his story upon my shelf
For times I wanna kill myself

And know there’s a worse place.

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Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

jj1562’s Poems (142)

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